


Do, or Donut – There is No Try

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 05:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: The reader unexpectedly bumps into a frisky feeling Gabriel in a bakery while waiting for Castiel. Bakery puns. Archangel sugar. Humor. Blink and you miss it possessive Cas.





	Do, or Donut – There is No Try

“Number 37!” the cashier slash baker mechanically barks from behind the counter. Her sweat-flushed cheeks and a weary countenance dusted with flour and cocoa powder make it appear as though she has recently done battle with an army of ovens. A colorful array of frosting and fruit fillings, the blood and innards of her subdued saccharine enemies, smears the white apron tied in a tight bow shielding her waist.

“I, um, I think that’s me.” A weak-shouldered man approaches the counter from the mass of customers waiting to be served and adjusts his heavy black spectacles as he double checks his red-lettered ticket to be certain. “Yes, that’s me,” he affirms, stepping forward to squint into the glass display of baked goods. Wearing pants at least two inches too short on the inseam, the mismatched socks adorning his ankles testify to his lack of focus. He visibly trembles with indecision, vacillating between the more Americanized and ethnic assortments of pastries.

“What’ll it be?” the baker thumps a palm to her chest, sending a puff of flour into the air.

A collective groan murmurs through the impatient crowd. The small space smells of browned butter, yeast, and distain.

“I think I’ll try the Bavarian custard,” the rube finally sputters.

“Do. Or _donut_. There is no try,” the voice of the man sidling up to you and commiseratively nudging your arm is oddly familiar. “Sheesh, some people. Am I right?”

“Huh?” You glance sidelong and flinch at the sight of the dearly departed trickster archangel standing beside you. “Gabriel?”

His brow lifts, lips pursed in a mockery of concern. “Lookin’ a bit glazed and confused there, streusel. I have that effect. Some might even consider it a gift.” Glinting amber irises level their gaze on you in expectation of a gleeful welcome.

You gape, shock-stymied tongue lolling in your mouth, “You…you’re-”

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” Settling for your stunned surprise, his features shift into a self-satisfied grin. Grasping your elbow, he steadies your swaying frame. “Hey there muffin, you look like you need to sit down.”

“Next! 38!” the cashier casts an irritated glare at the departing spectacled-man. He paid entirely in loose change. It’s two and one-half minutes of her life she will never get back.

A young couple complete with a blubbering infant in a stroller presents themselves for judgement before the baker and the mob.

You manage to spit out, “But you…you’re-”

“Dead? I see we’re skipping the niceties today.” He gives your arm an affectionate squeeze.

“What are you doing here?” It’s a full sentence. You congratulate your befuddled brain.

“Oh, please!” He gestures toward the counter. “Everyone knows the apple fritters here are to die for – figured it was worth coming back for my just desserts.”

“39!” the throng presses you both forward.

“So, you’re not really dead then?” you ask, disbelieving the evidence there in front of you, and evidently so full of questions you cannot stifle them.

“Dead? Pshaw!” He swats at the empty air. “You say _dough_ nut, I say _do_ nut.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? They’re the same thing.”

“Ugh. Are they? Are they _really_?” He waggles an eyebrow suggestively.

“Yes,” you state. At least it’s not a question.

“Whatevs, honeybun,” he snorts, brushing the comment off. In Gabriel-esque fashion, he cuts straight to the chase, “Enough about me. You still doin’ the cinnamon-sugar twist with my little bro?”

You can’t help it. It’s too much. You’re not even able to be properly offended by the personal nature of his probing because of the running distracting theme of his word choices. “Why do you keep making pastry references?”

“When in Rome.” He shrugs. Not letting the point go, he adds, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“ _40!_ ”

You’re no longer paying attention to baker or the hungry horde. “You didn’t answer mine, first,” you sass.

“Touché, tartlet.” He winks and inclines up on his tip-toes to peer over the heads’ of the crowd. Not finding the dark-haired blue-eyed trench coat sporting seraphim he seeks, he inquires, “Where is the old ball and cruller anyway?”

“Parking.”

“Humph,” he drops back to his soles with a soft grunt. He looks you up and down and licks his lips. “What a sucker, letting a sweet strudel like you scamper out of sight all alone.”

“Seriously, Gabe? Do you even know you’re doing that?”

“What’s that, cupcake?”

“That!”

He smirks. “You want the short answer, or the Long John?” Taking advantage of your angel’s absence, perhaps, his palm slips casually to the small of your back.

“Number 41!” the baker shouts.

He shoves you gently forward.

“Fine, forget I asked.” You narrow your eyes in a vaguely threatening manner.

“41!” she repeats in a grumble.

Gabe nods at the oblong fragment of paper clutched between your fingertips with the numbers 4 and 1 printed in bold crimson ink.

“That’s, uh, oh that’s me!” You shout and lurch up to the counter. “Sorry,” you pant in apology.

The baker’s deepening scowl indicates she is unimpressed by your repentance.

“Um,” you exhale, ignoring the pressure of all eyes in the room on you and the warmth of where Gabe’s fingertips linger lightly upon your waist. The memorized list emerges from your throat, “A bear claw, a strawberry frosted, a half-moon, an old-fashioned-”

Gabe leans in and whispers in your ear, “Call me old-fashioned…”

You persevere in spite of the intrusion, “Two bran muffins, a vanilla éclair-”

“With sprinkles?” the baker sighs.

“…but wha’dya say we ditch this donut hole, make like Boston, and cream?” Gabe finishes.

“Yes. I mean no! No!” you screech, spinning wildly to smack the amorous archangel away. Turning back to the baker, you clarify, “I mean _yes_ to the sprinkles.” Forcing a pleasant smile, you mutter over your shoulder between clenched teeth, “I’m with Cas!”

“That’s nice dear, anything else?” the baker scoffs, tone implying anything else is going to be an inconvenience to the nth degree.

You hate to ask. “Do you have any pie today?”

“Do you see any pie?” she growls.

You take it that’s a resounding _no_ for the pie. Dean’s going to be even less happy than this miserable bakery proprietress. Thankfully you have a backup plan. “One, no make that two maple bacon bars.” You drift along the counter to the register, watching as she boxes up your order with more care than you expect and, you imagine, probably more care than she thinks you deserve at this point.

The archangel doesn’t relent, whining in your wake, “C’mon, what’s that crusty cronut Castiel got that I don’t have?”

“Well for one thing, I have Y/N,” Castiel booms from behind his brother, causing him to shudder.

“Oh right,” you jump up to get the baker’s attention, “and a cronut please. Thank you!”

She rolls her eyes.

Gabe contritely jams his wandering hands into his pockets and flashes Cas a not wholly convincing rueful smile.

“Hey, angel cake.” You spin to peck a kiss on Cas’ scruffy jaw.

The angel wraps a possessive arm around your waist, plants a kiss to the crown of your head, and glares warningly at Gabe through the locks of your hair.

“Well powder me and call me a jelly doughnut. Preferably raspberry jelly, cause, reasons,” Gabe babbles in response to your mutual shows of devotion.

The baker clears her throat from the register.

You squirm free of your angel’s overtight embrace to go pay the bill.

“Why would I want to do that?” Cas cocks his head.

“This guy!” Gabe laughs, glancing into the unsympathetic and uninterested faces of the waiting crowd for support. “Why _wouldn’t_ you? Bring it in broski.” He opens his arms wide, twitching his fingers in a grabby motion before bodily hurling himself the short the distance to pull Cas in for an awkward hug. “You know the heavenly dogma – try everything at least once. And if you like it, go for the baker’s dozen.” He extricates himself after a moment and reclines against the counter

Cas’ blues constrict askance. “That definitely isn’t one of Heaven’s doctrines.” Brow furrowing, he asks as though the thought has just occurred to him, “Aren’t you dead?”

“Don’t bother,” you mumble, balancing the paperboard box of confections in your hands.

“Number 42!”

“Would you look at that – my number’s up, again.” Gabe straightens and holds up his numbered scrap for you to see. Fluttering the fingers of his free hand over it, the paper vanishes into thin air. “See ya later, love muffins.” He winks.

“Last call for forty- _two_!” the baker bellows with such intensity you and Cas both pivot to look at her.

When you turn back, the archangel is gone.

“Gabe?” you ask, a reflex.

Cas only shakes his head.

“Now serving 43!”


End file.
